


Bewitched

by enkelimagnus



Series: SH Sapphic Ficathon Prompts [3]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Attempted Murder, Choking, F/F, Fantasy AU, Hate Sex, Immortal Lilith, Oral Sex, Strap-Ons, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Witch AU, Witch Lilith, Witchhunter Isabelle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 11:42:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21899932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enkelimagnus/pseuds/enkelimagnus
Summary: Hellbent on revenge after the death of her best friend, Isabelle settles at an inn not far from the Witch's lair.She doesn't need a spell to fall into bed with the Witch, however.
Relationships: Isabelle Lightwood/Lilith
Series: SH Sapphic Ficathon Prompts [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1574311
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16
Collections: shadowhunters sapphic ficathon





	Bewitched

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the "Beware of the Witch" prompt from week 2 of the Shadowhunters Sapphic Ficathon by @shsapphicfics on twitter
> 
> This has been VERY fun to write ;) 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

The Witch has been escaping Isabelle for the last five years. She’s seen her only twice, immortal, immovable beauty unchanged from the pictures Isabelle’s journal holds. Isabelle hates her, deeply and irrevocably. 

The hem of her skirt gets even muddier than it was before as she dismounts her horse and leads it into the stables of the inn she’s elected to stay at. It’s a village over from the one holding the Witch’s lair, a high tower Isabelle will have to climb in the next couple of days. 

She takes care of her horse, grabs her things and walks into the inn. The place is quiet, almost empty, and the man behind the counter eyes Isabelle suspiciously. He had thick brows and dark eyes, and he seems uncomfortable with her appearance. 

Isabelle has had to deal with similar reactions before. She wears her skirts pulled up at the front with sturdy buckles, showing her fabric-covered legs up to the knee. Her corset is not as tight as it should be, her shirts often stained, her hair only half-up. She’s also a woman travelling alone. 

“Do you have a room?” She asks, barely saying hello. She guesses any sort of politeness won’t be appreciated anyway. 

The man grabs a key and slides it over. “7 silvers a night. 10 for food, dinner and breakfast.” 

“Stable included?” She asks, and the man nods reluctantly.

Isabelle grabs her purse pouch from her belt and takes 10 silver coins out of it, sliding it over to him, in exchange for the key. 

“I’ll have dinner in my room, Sir,” she adds. The man nods. 

She carries her bags up the narrow staircase and into the upstairs corridor, stopping at the red door, the same color as the fabric tag on the key. She slides it in, unlocks it and walks into the room she’s rented for the night. 

The bed is narrow, covered with a beige-colored fabric and with a knitted blanket at the foot. There are no pillows, nothing much as far as added comforts go. A white basin and a white pitcher with a light blue pattern on the rim and a couple of chips in the edge sit in the stool next to the window. 

Isabelle puts her bags down and lights the half-melted candle on the bedside table.

She opens the light curtain and peers outside. A young-looking man is running out of the inn and jumping on the back of a horse, starting immediately at a gallop as they disappear into the night outside of the paved yard of the inn. 

Isabelle sighs and turns away from the window. She sits on the bed, the tiredness of her travels suddenly weighing on her. She’s been on the road for the past five years, leaving her home and her family behind, in the pursuit of killing the Witch.

Her older brother Alexander has probably married and fathered a child by now. He’s taken over the affairs of their father, probably. With hope, the parents are dead, and their youngest sibling Maxwell is studying well. Isabelle misses them. 

She knows what she gave up when she left. She was betrothed to a man she didn’t actually hate, and who was almost her age. She had her siblings, her friends, her life. But the Witch didn’t give her a choice. The Witch came in the night of Alexander’s birth day, taking the life of Isabelle’s uncle, aunt and cousins, as well as the life of Aline, Isabelle’s best friend and sister of heart. 

It was punishment, of course. When she started hunting the witches around their home, Isabelle knew that she would maybe suffer from one of the creatures avenging their dead. It’s now her turn to get revenge, and she’s not going to stop until the witch lays dead in front of her. 

She can imagine that the witch herself holds similar thoughts towards her. 

Isabelle slides out of her muddy overskirt, and changes it for one that she’s only worn inside, and that does not have visible blood stains. It’s dark red, a bit heavier than the travel overskirt she wears on horseback, and the leather buckles that hold the front of it up are replaced by ribbons. She ties the ribbons up, revealing the thick stockings she wears up to her thighs for travel. She should get a new pair, she thinks. 

She looks at herself in the reflection of the window. Her hair is dark and messier than appropriate, her eyes are dark and have circles of tiredness around their sockets, and her skin is a little paler than usual. 

Her stomach rumbles but she doesn’t pay it any mind. She takes her journal, the one given to her as heirloom from her uncle, and she flips through the pages quietly, reading the descriptions of the creatures he met throughout his hunting life.

Eventually, she falls asleep on her bed, the journal open on her lap. 

She might have slept through the night, but a knock at the door wakes her up later. She doesn’t know how much time has passed. She’s hungry, for sure. She stands up and opens the door. 

A woman holds the tray of food and walks into her room, careful and quiet. She’s desirable. Isabelle has known women on the road, and this one makes her want to ask her to stay and eat with her, and then spend the night, warming each other and the bed.

Her face is beautiful, her hair dark like a raven’s feathers, a skin pale, her lips red. Her eyes are a bit wide set, her nose somewhat aquiline, and the night’s darkness wraps around her like a shroud. Isabelle realizes who she is when the tray is set on the bedside table. 

She slides a knife tempered in the water of a witch hazel out of her sleeve and lunges forward. The Witch is too fast. She turns, dodges her attack and pushes her backwards.

The witch’s hand wraps around Isabelle’s throat as her back hits the wall. 

“I know who you are,” Isabelle hisses, struggling against the woman’s grip. She didn’t think a witch was this strong, but there is no kind of power that escapes them. She probably put a spell on herself to make her body stronger.

“Are you sure?” The witch replies. “You came into my country, looking so unusual that my people knew to alert me.”

The young man with the horse, Isabelle remembers. He’d gone to warn the witch of her arrival. 

“You’re young and reckless,” the witch continues, lips red like blood and eyes dark in anger. “And a killer.”

“I ask that you take the spells off of the good people of this town,” Isabelle exclaims in reply, struggling still against the woman who holds her against the wall. “Release their innocent souls!”

The witch freezes for a moment, looking at her. “Naive girl,” she replies. “None of these people are bewitched. They obey me because I keep them safe from the harsh winters, keep their crops thriving and their women from dying from childbirth.” 

Isabelle struggles more, her nails digging into the witch’s arm. “Lies!”

The witch is a monster, a creature of darkness. She killed Aline and Maxwell, Isabelle’s uncle and she has been terrorizing the country for centuries, killing and sacrificing to dark forces. These people cannot follow her in thankfulness. They must be enslaved. 

Isabelle knows why it’s easy for the witch to enslave commonfolk. The witch is gorgeous, like a goddess. Her eyes make Isabelle melt, in a way she hates. She hates her even more now that the witch holds her by the neck, chokes her and makes heat pull in her gut. 

The witch’s corset doesn’t seem tight but the curve of her breasts press against it. It’s black, like a widow’s dress, like the woman’s hair, and like her eyes. It makes her breasts look even whiter in the low light.

“You will not bewitch me, dark creature!” Isabelle hisses again, taking her attention away from the woman’s breasts, and back to her face. 

The witch smirks. “I’m not trying.” She seems to be inching closer and closer.

“I will kill you,” Isabelle promises, but her voice is weaker. The witch is watching her, closing in on her. 

“I won’t let you,” the witch replies, and she’s so close now that Isabelle can feel her breath against her lips. 

Isabelle opens her mouth to reply but the witch kisses her. It’s a hard, deep kiss with her tongue thrust into Isabelle’s mouth without asking for any sort of permission. The witch’s hand is still around her throat, and it tightens as she kisses her, until Isabelle feels dizzy, and hot. She can feel wetness in her groin as the witch loves back, loosens her hand and watches her. 

“What is your name?” Isabelle sputters, voice hoarser than she expects. “I only know you as the Witch.” 

The witch smirks. “Lilith.” 

Isabelle nods. “You will not enslave me, Lilith.” 

Lilith rolls her eyes obviously. Her hand slip from Isabelle’s throat to the back of her neck, into her messy dark curls, and she kisses her again. Isabelle kisses back, wanton. 

Isabelle tries to push her, either away or to the bed, indiscriminately, but fails. The witch kisses like the men in Isabelle’s fantasies and in the books she’s read, smuggled in by other friends desiring the arousing tales of erotic novels. 

Lilith switches them over and pushes her back slightly towards the bed. Isabelle takes a few steps back and tumbles back, her back hitting the mattress. The witch kneels onto the bed, over her, Isabelle’s legs falling wide open for the woman to settle in between them. 

She stops kissing her, mouth travelling down to Isabelle’s cleavage, teeth sinking lightly into flesh. It stings, in the best possible way, and Isabelle’s nails dig into Lilith’s arms again. She’s still going to kill her, and she still hates her, but she hasn’t slept with anyone in weeks, and she’s not going to stop this now with a dagger to the witch’s chest. She’ll do that when she’s come.

Lilith pushes her skirts up until she can see the flesh of her upper thighs and the white of her underpants. She rips at the clothing eagerly. Something that isn’t a hand pushes Isabelle down. It’s a great force that takes over and keeps her upper body against the mattress as Lilith’s tongue suddenly licks a trail of pleasure over her labia. 

Isabelle moans. She can’t see anything but her skirts, she can’t move except for moaning, and Lilith is fast and skilled. She sucks at Isabelle’s clit, licks in circles at her folds and Isabelle feels like losing her mind. 

She tries to grind into Lilith’s mouth but the witch’s magic - or at least Isabelle thinks it’s her magic - is keeping her down and immobile. It’s good, great even. Her tongue thrusts inside Isabelle’s vagina over and over, and she’s positively tongue-fucking her, nosing and nibbling at her clit from time to time. 

“I’m…” Isabelle has no time to tell her anything more. 

Lilith moves away, stopping all touch in Isabelle’s folds and she feels like she’s losing her mind. The witch sits up and she is smirking as Isabelle tries her best to writhe and get herself off. 

“You… fucking…”

Lilith laughs. It’s half happy and half cruel and Isabelle groans in frustration. Her legs are wide open, she knows she’s wet and glistening, her skirts are pushed up over her torso in an obscene tableau. She wants more. No. She  _ needs  _ more. 

“Please,” Isabelle groans, and Lilith’s smirk becomes victorious. 

She shifts, looks at Isabelle’s spread out and aroused body and hums. “Have you been penetrated before?” She asks. 

Isabelle nods. She’s not the proudest of her deliances with men. Women are alright, but men… Her strict lady-like education stills holds onto her, when it comes to men. 

Lilith smiles and pushes two fingers firmly inside of Isabelle. Isabelle moans, but it’s short-lived. The witch takes the fingers away as soon as they are in completely. She shifts again and reaches up. She pushes her wet fingers to Isabelle’s lips. 

“Open,” she orders. Isabelle complies. 

She doesn’t know how to describe the taste of her own juices. She feels dirty, with those two fingers into her mouth, her tongue lapping at them and the moan that’s coming out from her throat. 

Lilith settles between her legs, and pushes her hips towards her. Isabelle feels something that is not a finger nudge between her legs. 

“What-” She starts, panicking. 

Lilith shakes her head. “Sssh. It’s a fake organ,” she explains. “Shaped and made to replicate a man’s anatomy.”

Isabelle swallows. She’s never been taken by a woman that way, with something that wasn’t a tongue or fingers. She relaxes. She feels the magic that kept her from moving alleviate, and she spreads her legs as far as she can, to allow for the fake penis.

Lilith looks down at her as she guides her tool into her. It’s big and hard, sliding into her and opening her. The woman is slow, careful, and Isabelle’s breath is fast and shallow. She moans despite herself, reaching to hold the witch closer as she gets deeper and deeper in. 

She stills when she reaches the hilt, and Isabelle quivers. The dark hair of the woman falls around her face, and she looks down at Isabelle with a smile. The skirts are bunched up and Lilith guides one of Isabelle’s legs to close over her hip, pressing her toy deeper in. 

She starts moving then. The thrusts are slow but rhythmic, seemingly burying the toy deeper in with every thrust. 

“Lilith!” Isabelle calls out, and the woman takes it as an invitation to do more. 

She picks up the pace, the cock pistoning in and out of Isabelle. Isabelle’s moans dissolve in an almost constant cry, her nails digging into the beautiful pale flesh of the witch as her pussy quiver around the toy. It’s incredibly alike her experiences with men before, and the woman has no mercy.

Lilith’s breasts bounce into her corset and Isabelle stares too much, drool forming from her open lips and her release building under her skin. The witch is ruthless in her thrusting, her eyes dark with pleasure and lust and Isabelle can’t help the overwhelming pleasure that stumbles into her.

“I- I hate you,” she forces out of her mouth in between pleasurable thrusts and Lilith’s smirk is so satisfied that Isabelle almost orgams right there. 

Lilith looks down at her. “I know you do, hunter. But you’re loving every moment of this,” she taunts. 

Isabelle groans loudly, pleasure and frustrating and hatred mixing up. She’s so close to orgasm she can feel her pussy tighten around the toy penetrating her, over and over. 

“I will kill you,” she promises again.

“I will take you again before you even think of stabbing me with your dagger,” Lilith replies. “You will always remember the witch who pleasured you like no being ever could. You will find a husband you love and you will think of me when he tries to make you pregnant,” she whispers and kisses Isabelle again. 

Isabelle orgasms as Lilith bites down on her lower lip. Her scream of pleasure is muffled by Lilith’s lips on hers. It’s the best release she’s ever had and she feels her body seize, her back arch, and her pussy tighten. 

Lilith groans her release not long after. The mechanics of her getting off are unknown to Isabelle. All she knows is that the cock inside of her stills, buried deep, and the woman looks overcome with pleasure. 

She slides out of her a few minutes later. When she moves back, the toy has disappeared. 

Isabelle stumbles for the dagger, and the witch gets away from the bed. It’s like Isabelle is clumsy, boneless, unable to properly get the knife and kill the person she needs to kill. It’s infuriating. 

The witch is fast and graceful on her feet, and it’s as if nothing happened and she didn’t orgasm a few minutes before. Isabelle’s feet still shake. The door slams shut behind the witch before she can get off of the bed.

Isabelle gives up. She closes her legs again, slowly. Her groin is sensitive and she is exhausted. 

She manages to eat some of the now cold food and take off her clothes before falling into bed, and falling in a deep sleep.

The witch escapes.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed this!
> 
> Shoot me an ask or a DM on my tumblr @enkelimagnus, or reach me on my Twitter @enkelimagnus!  
I have anons on and curiouscat so don't be shy!


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